kiss kiss kiss
Kristin Ito
kiss
The first time I kiss a boy, it’s naptime. Christopher has white blonde hair and blue blue eyes and he taps his index finger lightly on his cheek two times. We lie on our sides facing each other in a corner of the classroom, our nap mats touching. I can picture it now: the soft sounds of kindergarteners dropping off to sleep, Mrs. Miller tip-toeing around our small bodies in the dim light. Here, Christopher whispers, and taps again. I check to make sure no one’s looking and try to move so that my mat doesn’t crinkle beneath me. I roll towards Christopher and give him a peck. Later, my classmates tease me about naptime kisses and Christopher. Then one day I hear some parents joking about us being sweethearts, the white-haired boy and the Asian girl. So adorable, they say, he has a little girlfriend. I’m six years old and I feel ashamed. I’m furious at myself for kissing him, to have done exactly as he asked.
kiss
The first time I get drunk, I kiss a boy. It’s the beginning of sophomore year and we sneak bottles of cheap vodka and rum into Sproul Hall. It’s my birthday, which means it’s early autumn and nobody has gotten around to studying yet. People jam into the room, and we stuff a towel beneath the door. I gulp shots of Goldschalger and think I can feel the gilded flakes flowing down my throat. It’s hot and I’m flushed. Somebody’s brought a grocery store cake and a can of Reddi-wip. The next thing I know we’re all covered in chocolate and cream, our jeans, our tanned arms, our faces. I’m getting cozy with a boy I’ve met a few times I can’t remember how. I’m sitting on his lap now and the next morning I find out I kissed him. I did what, I say, but my hangover is too heavy for me to care. Desks cluttered with red cups and empty bottles. Frosting smeared into the rug. Later, while chatting with the boy on AIM, he tells me he like likes me, and I end up dating him for the next four years.
kiss
The first time I kiss a woman, I’m on the floor. We tumble into my apartment after a night out, landing softly on the hardwood, her against the door. Our eyes meet in the shadows. We’ve held hands under tables and in cars and around town. We’ve traced circles on our palms while sitting on a leather couch so supple it pushes us together when we sink in. The couch is at a lounge in the back of a coffee shop, where the bartender makes us soju cocktails that taste like summer strawberries. The drinks aren’t strong, but I feel punch-drunk all the time these days. When I kiss her, I feel everything all at once. A prickling in my pores. A certainty in my heart and in my bones. Later, after she goes back to her place, I’m in bed replaying the moment in my head. I smile and feel a mild breeze from the open window, like a patient reminder, soft and electric. How did I not know this whole time?